


The Isle of Dogs

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman
Genre: Codependency, Gen, sans sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 01:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: “You thought I did not value anything save your services.” James nodded. ”I see.” He paced for a moment, thoughtful in his movement. ”I assumed that my regard was implicit in the fact that day after day, even year on year you were still alive. I do not regard emotion as worthy of thought so I do not speak of it. Did you never inquire as to your predecessors?”I’d honestly assumed my predecessors were in a burlap bag at the bottom of the Thames, weighted down with things that amused Moriarty. A bicycle wheel; part of a hearse; a pile of guns. “Were there any?”





	The Isle of Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowkeeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowkeeper/gifts).



> Had to fill a yuletide treat -- you had a great prompt!

Not since Isambard Kingdom Brunel launched the USS Great Eastern has the Isle of Dogs received the attention of such a genius, and never again will it see his like. Certainly not in the tiny vicarage attached to Christ Church, where the locals had no doubt been receiving a particularly rousing sort of moral advisement for the prior six months from their new Vicar.

My own involvement with this man of the cloth had brought revelation into my life in one of it's most benighted times -- as shocking as Paul's conversion on the road to Damascus. Those who knew me in the past and my imprisonment could think of no other reason for my devoted attention to such a modern-day saint as some form of evangelical conversion.

I seldom left his side, and accompanied him as an assistant, carrying with me theology texts, ostentatiously for his reference, though when he wished to talk on the subject it was more useful for his audience to lead through while trying to quickly keep up. If you have been reading along so far, you're also wondering what in dashes has happened for that ruddy, vicious bastard to be talking about religion, when before he'd only mentioned it in the context of good silver to pawn.

But I leap ahead, a habit I still retain. The time in the squalor of a London jail did not serve to give me patience, if anything it made me itch under my skin. The turnkey soon realised my usefulness in terms of thinning the herd of the weak and also my ability to bring low the ladies of virtue who visited to give succor to the wretches languishing at her Majesty's pleasure. I soon had them languishing at my pleasure, and panting against the stone walls. Turnkey would charge for the viewing pleasure of others as well.

But it was the only real pleasure I had, and the thrill of crime, of playing a hand of cards and living entirely by my wits, was gone from me, taken by the thin man and his idiot partner. There was no hunt in the Knick, only toying with prey.

I was supplementing my income with another of my lurid tales for the Pearl, which furnished me with enough in the way of monies to get some level of food and the luxury of not always being left in the communal cell, ankle deep in piss and slurry when Turnkey told me with a jeering smile that I had a visitor. I asked who it was to get a feel for my mark and he said "Someone here to save your soul Moran. Fat bloody chance of that. We all know you ain't got one because the devil uses it to wipe his arse." He had a certain colourful turn of phrase, did Turnkey.

I had not yet felt inspired to give this particular turnkey the beating that I had given his predecessor. It was a shame the man had lived, but reports had filtered back to me that his newly sciatic spine kept him from ever again suggesting he could lightly roger his prisoners. I rose to move with turnkey to the visitors area.

I saw him from behind first, as unusually, I was sent to an area of privacy. My hunters eye, dulled by incarceration did not miss the ecclesiastical wear but did miss the most important fact about my visitor. At least until he spoke and I felt as struck by lightning by the voice I thought I had silenced with a bullet at Reichenbach. "Yes, thank you, I wish to speak to the Colonel alone," he said with a lilt of irish.

Turnkey sneered something witty, something he thought was witty, but I was deaf to it. I was as numb to his verbal slings and arrows as any native whose rough stone idol suddenly began talking to him. My mouth was dry. He was still thin, slightly stooped, hollow cheeked, and his eyes had that light, that burning fire that answered "oh yes" to my silent mental howl of "but I shot you."

The clink of a coin ensured our privacy and James looked at me and a twisted smile appeared on his face. "Why Colonel Moran, it would seem you look like you have seen a ghost."

"I, I, sir..." I gibbered, stared and breathed as my knees went oddly weak from shock, and then felt shock turn to fire in my chest. No one would have believed I was having anything other than a heart attack, but it was realization that this, too, had been arranged.

"Reverend James Maskil," James said. "Do sit down Sebastian. I feel I can call you that as we have shared so much. Life and death for a start." His eyes were the dark burning intensity I remembered and it was easy to see how he could become a convincing priest with what looked like zealot's fire behind his eyes.

“How?” Why, I wasn’t fool enough to ask why -- because he was Moriarty, and it didn’t take a school boy to work out art of death from their family name. I stared into those burning eyes and waited for him to snap my neck. Like an idiot, waiting for god to strike my down with lightening.

“A simple matter of prediction and preparation,” he said dismissing that. ”Your restlessness was apparent and the chances of Ms. Adler being particularly persuasive in your case was high. I did not go unprepared to meet my nemesis, let that suffice. But what has it gained you Sebastian?” He gestured to the cell around us both. ”You chafed and wriggled and slipped your leash. For what?”

For the thrill of the chase and a few hands of cards at the Bagatelle club. For the miserably executed attempt to kill the thin man. “Nothing. I thought I was out on my own, so...” I didn’t need to explain, because Moriarty could explain it better to me.

“You thought I did not value anything save your services.” James nodded. ”I see.” He paced for a moment, thoughtful in his movement. ”I assumed that my regard was implicit in the fact that day after day, even year on year you were still alive. I do not regard emotion as worthy of thought so I do not speak of it. Did you never inquire as to your predecessors?”

I’d honestly assumed my predecessors were in a burlap bag at the bottom of the Thames, weighted down with things that amused Moriarty. A bicycle wheel; part of a hearse; a pile of guns. “Were there any?”

“Yes. Sadly deceased sometimes through their incompetence, and sometimes through irritation,” James replied. He looked at me again and obviously I was too slow at reaching the conclusion he wanted. ”What does this say to you?”

“That I’m annoying you right now.” I was reaching for deadpan, but there was probably a hint of distress in my voice that made him smile. At the time, I still didn’t understand what and why he’s planned it all, but that was why Moriarty was the king of crime, an unparalleled planner.

“Quite.” He seemed amused. ”Perhaps then I will let you think on that mystery and other related issues. The past is dead and buried; a new life beckons Sebastian.”

His head bobbed then, a gentle comfortable swaying that set my nerves on edge, like a king cobra settling in for a long evening of snaffling down unsuspected mongooses. I remained seated, but offered, “what can I do?”

“Choose.” He said. ”Here, and eventually even your prowess will cease to save you from the hangman’s noose. With me, born again so to speak... but will you chafe once more?”

“With you.” There was no hesitating, because I knew I’d swing for Aldair’s death, the useless whinging snitch. What I had missed was the thrill that went up my leg and made my jollies bright when Death was knocking on my door.

“Good. Time then to reform Sebastian.” James said sounding gleeful as he stood. ”A devoted convert with a popular vicar pleading your case. Well, strange enough to be true yes?” Stories like that graced the newsheets on a daily basis, but that was how I ended up clutching a bible and after weeks of negotiations because Turnkey is a greedy bastard in any Jail, stepping blinking out into the light of the open sky and stinking streets of London town.

She’s an ugly familiar bitch, but I wouldn’t trade her for anything. I’ve trekked the Himalayas, I slogged the jungles of India, I’ve traipsed and shot and potted my way through more godforsaken lands gorgeous and ugly, but nothing compared to London. I was sure my release would make some minor news item that would make all the loving and kind Christians feel warm deep in the cockles of their useless hearts.

On the surface, I was moved into the Christ Church rectory to be rehabilitated, my story more evidence to the growing masses on the Isle of Dogs that idiolised the Revered James Maskil of his incarnation of one of the saint. I had to say it was inspired as an identity went. James had not been idle at all.

He was as brilliant and merciless as a man of the cloth as he’s been as a man of math, and he was more openly excited by gently subverting matters of the spirit than he’d ever been as a monotone school teacher.

For a man who I had shot for his apparent inability to comprehend loyalty, in part at least, James had inspired fanatic loyalty and almost worship amongst his ‘flock’. Of course he applied his skills with great aplomb....both secret instigator of a crisis, and then public saviour. After I had settled in at the vicarage, my tragic misunderstood history a subject of neighbourhood gossip, he told me of my first task.

”Simple enough. Practically a present for you,” he said. “I encouraged a certain set of the criminal element to settle in here and run roughshod over the locals.” He sipped at his drink. “Of course, now they’ve become greedy and have taken to killing people. I do believe it is time for you to play the hero Sebastian.” He had taken to calling me often by my first name than before. It was one of the many changes in approach that unnerved me a little.

It was all for a purpose, but I rather felt like a prized poodle who’d bitten the master and received a juicy steak in reward. It wasn’t un-welcome at all, but it made me nervous about when I’d find the rat poison in my tea. “Save the local women and children?”

“And their spiritual leader,” he chuckled a little. ”I must be seen to have enemies and it will provide a very logical excuse for your constant presence. And obviously you a certain lee-way in their eyes. Soldiers are expected to have certain reputations. It gains us a correct form of notoriety and allows me to gain access into certain other circles.”

Since my conviction for murder, I’d thought my station of honor as a former war hero well and truly spent, but a bit of derring do, and it would raise my stock. All I really needed was to rescue a mob of snot nosed waifs from a burning orphanage. “I swear to be on my most impressive rakish behavior.”

“I am surprised you have not been out to celebrate your freedom,” he mused, looking at me with a calculating gaze. Again, i felt strangely as if he was missing something he was expecting me to deduce.

It wasn’t as if I’d been wanting for eager cunts while I’d been in the poke, and seeing Moriarty alive again had given me enough of a thrill in my water to last at least a few more weeks. “Felt best to not jeopardize my new position as a parolee until the heat died off.”

“Quite right of course. I am in the process of developing the secret teachings that will encourage a return to the uninhibited expression of love before the Fall for those with enough money to assure privacy and exclusivity,” he said. “But our position must be secured first. If people are unsteady, they will gravitate to the nearest secure point.”

“A church, a do gooding priest, and a protector.” The little office he had for himself in the vicarage was classy, with only vestiges of quaint. There was only a faint suggestion that it was really his, and I had to squint hard at some of the artifacts that decorated the mantelpiece to see them for what they were -- new fetishes serving as Momentos of new, smaller crones.

“Oh yes. And should Holmes also return from the grave, he will be a lone voice in the wilderness at our unassailable characters,” he said. ”He will gnaw on his liver knowing every accusation will be met with saddened and pitying looks at his obvious insanity.”

There was a moment of gleaming bright pleasure in his eyes while I levered myself up from the chair. I had since acquired a new sword cane, nicely weighted, but too new, too untested. It occurred to me that my opposite might be a factor to consider, but even I had heard of how his character had been impugned by some of the accusation Moriarty had constructed against him. ”Now, let us attend evensong, and we will gallantly walk our host of unaccompanied ladies back along the dangerous streets to their lodgings...no matter how long it takes for our enemies to realise.”

James certainly ran a different type of church. I was beginning to wonder having endured the hymn singing, that either the thuribles or the sacremental wine was laced with some form of opiate. James' concern for the ladies was a piece of consummate acting. More than one bosom heaved with quickened breath. I on the other hand, received more speculative looks when the Reverend Maskil declared we would all be safe in my company.

It was more proper churchy behavior than I'd experienced in years, though it faded from an irritant to an opportunity to play the lay of the land and to oogle pert busoms in their native environs -- unsuspecting, and occasionally highly flirtatious. I dusted off my charm, a little rusty from my soujorn in prison and now I was regaining some of my form I knew there were few I'd be able to bed with very little persuasion. James built up some of my heroic deeds from the past, although they were sometimes transferred from what I had truly been doing as entertainment as we walk members of the congreation home. I was itching for the promised fight, wondering how long indeed it would take this criminal element to find us.

If need be, I was ready to rattle doors, kick change, and drag my cane against wrought iron fences, just to get a bit of action. We were almost to the point of dropping off the last two esteemed ladies, when I was sure that perhaps James had over emphasized my reputation and the local criminals were unwilling to give it a go.

It was then of course that a gang of six of rough looking bastards loomed out of the London murk, all business and that business being the demise of James. The ladies screamed, and at the least feigned an attack of the vapours.

"A gent that fancies himself a fighter," one of the criminals said. "The one that slits his throat get's his wallet."

I’d like to see that. “Come on, boys. This is your last chance to take your leave lightly.” I waved the sword gently, waiting.

"I pray you see sense," James said in his vicar voice. "There are ladies of qualities here, and the Lord himself will strengthen the arm of their defender." It was a little bit laying it thick, but our companions were not of the highest calibre. Moriarty had chosen them for their standing in the community and reputation as gossips.

Which was never useful in an actual danger situation, though it did excuse them from having to deal with anything verging on reality, the smart bints. I unsheathed the sword, and grinned as I held it as the ready.

The gossip, and the drama they would be able to spread would be excellent for spreading the message and answering questions that other more upstanding members might have been pondering. “Well….” I held my sword at the ready, knowing part of the show was to be in defense only.

Of course, they attacked. It was practically inevitable and I admit to glorying in the freedom to get the blood pumping again. The surge of heat that ran through me was as if I was truly coming alive again. This was what I was missing. Not just brute violence but knowing it was part of a greater picture. Knowing if I failed there would be consequences. It moved things from brawling to winning.

I had to win, and more importantly I needed the win. I needed to come out on top of the battle better than even James expected of me, with only a few rougish scratches. My knuckles bled, as I used cuts of my blade only to disable, and was careful to not kill.

Either I was a little rusty or they were more skilled than the average footpad, but one came dangerously close to taking my eye with a blade, and left a stinging cut on my right cheek. Screams came from my charges and the rage I usually kept bottled inside erupted to the surface. There was my missing form, the point where the world seemed to slow around my movements where I did not have to think but just reacted. The fight then became with myself not to lost my purpose and focus and that was even more satisfying. By the end of it, I was panting a little, more with the effort of holding back and all our would be assailants lay in various state of unconsciousness at my feet.

I'd put myself, and James, in danger by holding back too much, by not letting myself be myself, and isn't that a lovely trite little ditty for you? That's a months’ worth of self improvement lectures for you, reader, embrace wholeheartedly your inner bastard.

"Praise be," James intoned but I could detect the smirk in his voice. "We have been delivered from our enemies, surely by divine intervention." I attempted to look like an angel in disguise. I had no practice at such a thing so I was not overly successful. The ladies who had been in various stages of swooning and the vapours were practically fervent with hysteria, chiming in with religious phrases. A rather luscious young lady with dark hair exclaimed at the fact I was bleeding and I was confident this would end in some form of liaison.

It was in the way her busom heaved; I'd have to play it with care to make sure she was inclined for a touch and go, and nothing so silly as a relationship, but that was a thrill of dalliance I hadn't had in ages, either, walking that sharp line. "Come, let's see you ladies safe abed."

The way her eyes widened just a little meant I was not wrong. I was sorely tempted, as we escorted them all to safety to follow that heaving bosom but James stopped me, which was unusual in and of itself. He usually just ignored my activities in those areas.

I wagered there was a role to be played, and I ceded to it without question until we were back to the privacy of the Vicarage, but it was a longer and colder tromp back than I'd planned to have the next day.

I was allowed some of the finest drink in the house as we sat in front of the vicarage fire in the parlour. Moriarty smiled to himself. "It would seem Sebastian, you have enamoured some of my flock. Exactly as planned."

"Pardon me asking, boss, I'm not quite clicking to long game here." As was often the case I was only going to find out a small portion of whatever the "plan "was.

The unusual thing was that Moriarty seemed to actually want me to know more than the small parcels of information that had marked our previous association. "Within a day, there will not be a woman in the area who will not have had a suitably embellished version of events," James sat back relaxing. "You will become larger than life, a guardian angel. It is a simple thing; they would not cope with anything complex." He never had great respect for the minds of women, which was a blind spot. One that had led to this situation.

In a way. And I didn't respect the bints, but by god I could be twisted by them, because That Bitch was cunning in a way that had left us at loose ends more than once. "And then...?"

"And then, after we've laid ground work, you are going to sweep through the Isle of Dogs like an avenging Angel." he replied. "I will allude to some mission from God, the usual sort of flim-flam. We will then build a secret society - they are very much the fashion are they not?"  
It was true enough, there was a fascination with cults and leagues.

To not so secretly pick pockets and puppet people in power who, for some damn reason, wanted more of it. I took a sip of my whiskey, and grinned at him, watching the faint oscillation of his head. “One of us will have to muster up a taste for decorating.”

"Oh, I'm sure one of your soon to be conquests will prove more than willing," James said. "We are creating a stronghold Sebastian, right in the heart of enemy territory."

What I wanted to ask was what enemy. Was it somehow tied to the fat man and his failure of a brother? Or was there another greater enemy of whom I had just not figured out? “To the end of...?”

"My plans have become more ambitious," James replied. "I am not content with the shadows. I will create something like our underground of before but into the Court and the hallowed halls of democracy."

For the challenge of it. There would be more money from such an endeavor than even I could squander, though I’d do my best when-ever I was given a chance, but there would above all be that great game of chess with humanity, with our lords and ladies of the so called royal court. MPs, the backbenchers, all of them. Even my sainted father, and his ilk, and that put a thrill in my water. “They won’t know what hit them.”

"Our support will easily give us a reason to be in there, our secret esoteric club, the elitism and exclusivity that they crave," Moriarty gestured. "I will recruit certain people to... 'my flock' who will give me access to the intelligentsia, to the new money and old money. It really becomes very apparent why the Church has historically been such a source of power."

“Guilt and gilt.” I glanced around the room, and yes. It could be showy in the way he wanted it to be; a certain touch would make things appealing to that set. Not utter orgies and slave boys and girls like the Egyptian cult, which was a damn shame, but...

"Indeed." James seemed to narrow his eyes. "We must be unassailable by the time a significant challenge presents itself. It will necessitate a little more discretion than before."

There was no one else he could be throwing that barb at. “I’ll be unassailable. Tip Top behavior.”

"Good. A necessary sacrifice to start with, but never fear there will opportunities for you to accommodate your nature." It was strange because to me it seemed oddly like Moriarty was being very conciliatory. It made me uneasy - I had shot him after all. I expected to wake from a slumber, and soon, to find myself trussed up like a turkey, win a live rat in my mouth or something else horrifying and slow and possibly well deserved.

He was studying me again and then sighed. "Sebastian, you can stop staring at me as if believe I'm going to slip a knife between your ribs."

“Or a rat. I was leaning toward a really creative death involving a rat and my rib cage. I did _shoot_ you,” I pointed out, unnecessarily, because the man was a bloody genius.

He took another drink and remained silent for a moment. "I want you to listen, because it would appear you regarded my previous explanation as perhaps a ploy or part of a punishment. Consider any punishment the time you spent in prison, and the fact I will hold you to restraining your nature until my say so. The truth is…" He hesitated. "I believed you were replaceable, I believed you efficient, a good...tool of sorts compatible with my ways, but in the end, a tool that if lost or discarded another could be found to fit the mold. But... I was wrong."

I want you to know, reader, that this was no note of fantasy. I was bloody stunned, and nearly verged on chewing my mustache while he said these foreign words in his usual tone of voice. He’d admitted he was wrong about, well, anything. “I’m... thank you.”

"My interest in releasing you from prison was not entirely altruistic or borne from sentimentality," Moriarty replied. "It would appear you are valuable to me, and I intend to make sure it is to me alone your allegiance lies. You demonstrably do not respond to fear as others would do. I endangered your life many times before and it thrilled you. No, it was something else that lost that loyalty. The belief that there was no loyalty to you. You fought for your men in Afghanistan, and even if you came to blows, disagreed with them they were still your men. That was a bond that fettered you like irons to the Army, and they cast you away and I foolishly followed their example."

His eyes were dark and glittering in the firelight. "I have learned from that decision. Your replacements were ineffective, infuriating and...short lived. So Sebastian, I propose this. You become not a tool, or a convenience but my right hand man. You will know what that entails. The only difference is that this time, I swear upon...my mind, that I shall return that loyalty."

If a man could puff up like a cockerel with pride, I would’ve just then. I stayed seated, though, taking it all in with adequate shock, and weighting the reality — that trust forged a better sword than just cash.

I won’t ruin your poor grasp of reality by detailing our last adventures, or the great deeds we wrought on the empire.

Suffice it to say, Moriarty for all his cold calculating genius, had sworn upon the thing most sacred to him and the most enduring point in existence; his mind. It proved to be as constant an anchor through his tempers and machinations; our sponsorship of elements in the Boer War and the cascade of diamonds into our hands, our glorious trips to India where he discovered many techniques to add to his James Maskil persona. Let me just say, in a strange way the Empire would not have been so strong and robust without our attention - there is no profit in fleecing an empty pocketed mark.


End file.
